The Scar
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: The scar burned again, but he oughtn't to have been too surprised at this point; the scar always seemed to be burning nowadays, both day and night, until Harry would have been more surprised if it wasn't hurting him in some way. *Harry's scar has begun to hurt him more than it does in book/movie*


The scar burned again, but he oughtn't to have been too surprised at this point; the scar _always _seemed to be burning nowadays, both day and night, until Harry would have been more surprised if it _wasn't _hurting him in some way.

It had started within days of his return from Hogwarts, the constant feeling of someone pressing a hot poker to his face, a horrible sensation that simply just wouldn't stop; the pain itself came with its own long list of problems, as well.

Harry couldn't sleep anymore, and when he did try, it was usually only for a few minutes, maybe twenty minutes here and there, until he was spending most of his long summer days and even longer summer nights crouching on the bed, wishing there was some way he could tear out the flesh around the scar until it was all just…_gone_.

Because he didn't want it anymore, the scar, he didn't want it on his face, hurting him, _burning him_, causing his every waking moment to be some terrible new plane of existence; blood ran down his face as Harry clawed at his scar, trying to keep the screams to a minimum with the use of muffled faces shoved into pillows.

He wasn't sure anymore…wasn't sure of anything, if the smallest room in his aunt and uncle's house was truly his current place of habitation, or if he was somewhere else, somewhere even _worse_, somewhere where pain was never ending, where darkness knew no end and no beginning because there was simply just no such thing as boundaries or limits.

Harry stuffed a hand into his mouth, biting down hard to keep from screaming, because he knew that the screams annoyed Uncle Vernon, and the last thing that Harry needed right now was more pain, more reasons to hurt and suffer, and so, Harry did his best to keep quiet, to keep the others currently residing in the house from hearing him.

But some days were harder than others, though Harry hesitated to refer to anything as 'day' or 'night' anymore, because without looking outside at anything, it was impossible to tell what time it was or how much time had passed, and with the threat of a headache always close at hand, Harry had blocked out all natural look from coming in only hours after the pain began.

Sometimes, he would awake one more to the sensation of his every inch of being on fire, and Harry would have to choke on his own blood to keep from making noise, biting his tongue until he thought he might just bite it in two; Harry hid all the potential weapons under his bed, knowing he wouldn't be able to move enough to reach them, worried that he might simply just give up and finally give in to the constant urging in the back of his head to take that long nap.

And the voices were a problem, too, the voices that constantly whispered in his ears, worming their way into Harry's head while he struggled to keep everything out, to make the noise and the confusion stop, gasping for air while he did his best to keep everything from getting to him, but it was all just too much; he couldn't…he couldn't…

_I am not going to die, _he told himself, but every fibre of Harry's being said otherwise. _I'm not dying_, he tried to convince himself, but if that was true, then why did the world seem to be tinged with red? Why did he struggle to make everything _not _hurt?

_The scar, the scar, get rid of the scar and everything will stop. Get rid of the scar and you'll feel better. It's the scar that's hurting you, it's the scar that is killing you, so just make it stop, make it go away, and everything will be right with the world again. Come on, it's the scar, it's the scar, get rid of the scar, do it, do it, do it._

_DoitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoitDOITDODOITDOITDOITDOIT, THE SCAR, THE SCAR, THE SCAR…_

…

"Is he okay?" The woman who was called Tonks bent over the bed, watching the writhing, screaming teenager thrash around in his bed, alternating between crying out cuss words and begging for someone to help him.

His forehead was hot and sweaty, his eyes ringed dark from a lack of sleep, and if he hadn't been constantly moving, Harry Potter might have been passed over for a dead man.

"How are we supposed to move him like this, Remus?" Tonks asked, placing a hand on the boy's forehead, which caused him to groan, arms raising to push against her, hissing and tugging at her fingers. "Something's wrong with him, something's happened."

"The scar," Mad-Eye grumbled from the doorway, causing Tonks to jump slightly and Remus to look up suddenly. "It's the scar, it's hurting him, and I can feel it from here. _Dark magic_, can't you feel it, soaking through this room, through this house, filling up every nook and cranny?" He gave them a leering grin that made Tonks feel unsettled.

"What are we supposed to do, then? Can we move him? _Should _we move him?" Remus gave a thoughtful frown, looking down at the squirming teenager, who moved in a manner that a Muggle might have called possessed.

And Harry _did _look possessed, his normal life-filled eyes now dull and glassy, his skin sweaty and taut; he alternated between yelling and sobbing, limbs flying about in an uncontrollable manner while Tonks did her best to soothe the fifteen year old.

"Is there even anything that we _can _do?" Remus asked, looking around at the other two adults in the room, wondering, should they find a way to move Harry to a location of more safety, was there something that could be done to both cure him and be worthwhile for Harry's sake? "I mean, for all we know, moving him or trying to help Harry could just end up killing him."

And if they did? If moving Harry hurt him, or worse yet, killed the boy, what were they supposed to do then? If Harry died while they tried to get him to safety, what was going to happen to the Order, to the Wizarding World?

"His forehead is hot," Tonks muttered, fingers stretching out to show the other two what she was talking about. "Where the scar is, it's hot and he keeps…he keeps reacting like it's all hurting him, like it's…_killing _him."

"It is," Mad-Eye said, "I've already told you that. That scar is going to _kill _him if we don't do something about it, so we ought to just grab the boy and head back to headquarters now-"

The boy on the bed let out another groan, breath coming out in ragged turns, and he was mumbling something over and over, causing the adults to lean in closer in order to hear him.

_Doitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoit, the scar, oh god, the scar, please, please, the scar, oh, please, please, please, the scar, the scar! It hurts, everything hurts, the scar, please, the scar, the scar! Oh god, please, someone, help me, doitdoitdoitdoit! _

_The scar!_


End file.
